Mourn
by SkyKissed
Summary: The final indignity, she supposes, is that they return in time to witness the death of their world. Man of Steel verse, Faora centric.


**A/N:** A very brief bit of nothing. Mostly wanted to play with Faora's motivations after seeing her.

* * *

**MOURN**

* * *

It is an odd change, and a jarring one, from the warmth of Krypton to space. Their home world is a rare novelty, painted in reds and oranges and near constant light. Their home is heat and life in it's most base, rugged form. Their home is strength.

This ship is cold. The very air in her lungs seems to freeze, the world coming to an absolute stop as she watches the pinpricks of fire begin to spread across the horizon. Coloring the blackness of space. Flame licks inward, engulfing the surface of the planet. The warmth that has so characterized her home, her life, floods outwards before collapsing, the blackness of space is all too eager to extinguish their civilization. For a moment, but a moment, things are like they were. Her world is reds and oranges and fire born of their worlds destruction. Krypton gives her one last farewell.

The final indignity, she supposes, is that they return in time to witness the death of their world and nothing more. There can be no last ditch attempt to save their people; they can only watch, powerless.

For all her strength, for all her perfect decorum, Faora is left to stare, a numbness filling her as she sinks to her knees. The light fades until only the stars are left painted in front of them, pinpricks in the darkness. Her world is suddenly grays, blues, cold colors that do not suit a daughter of Krypton. She stares in mute horror, aware of her General's touch (almost hesitant, out of character for him) and nothing else. There is pain in her stomach, worse than anything the Phantom Zone could have inflicted.

Her tongue flicks out to moisten painfully dry lips, finds clenching at her side. Absent and powerless little motions designed to engage her body, keep her moving, distract her. The warrior finds herself feeling caged, impotent for the first time in her life. Without purpose.

Krypton had been her purpose, her life, every reason to breathe. She had been born to protect those people, every action, every misstep, every sin, done to protect her home. Duty had seen her follow Zod and duty had seen her imprisoned. There had been purpose to each.

There is none now.

She watches empty space, particles of dust where her home once was, only blacks and grays filling her vision. Listless and hollow, she purses her lips. Grief is...an uncomfortable feeling for the proud warrior. Faora falls into a more militant stance, crosses her arms behind her back, stands taller. The arrogance is an effective shield as she forces herself to display a more dignified exterior. She observes the horrified faces of her companions; they grieve, some openly.

But their purpose is not as hers. They are soldiers but not so absolutely. Soldiers, not leaders, not like her and not like Zod. She stands taller and forces composure, her moment of frailty past. Faora takes her place at the General's side once more.

He says nothing. Her General watches the empty bit of space (feeling every bit as hollow, devoid of purpose) a long while before he finally turns. Zod stares at her a moment (not quite seeing) before he nods, more to himself than her, clasping her shoulder more securely.

Faora stands tall, wordlessly assuming command as her superior dismisses himself.

* * *

It is weeks before they discuss Krypton or their plan. They are soldiers and they are not suited to dwelling on such matters. Hollow, she goes about her assignments, searching for the remains of their culture. They hunt rumors and legends to keep busy.

It's revenge that keeps her warm at night (though even that term has lost meaning now). Alone, she rests and thinks over where they had gone wrong. The Council, of course, bloated and inefficient as it had become near the end. And Jor-El. Arrogant and impossible, playing at godhood as always. The memories leave a pleasant hatred pooling in her gut, welcome after the omnipresent chill of space. She takes a withering breath, choosing to rise instead of chasing sleep. It comes to her rarely now. She has no desire to find it anyway; her dreams are troubled at best, nightmarish at worst.

Hollow, she makes her way back to the Command deck. The ship is mostly automated anyway and it hums in the near silence, the room almost entirely abandoned. The Kryptonian stares out over alien stars. No sun, no real light, no life. It is a...lonely sort of reality.

There will be no more cheering in the streets of their once great cities, no one to sing of their heroism. She will not feel pride in her soldiers; she will not fight with every fiber of her being to defend a dying civilization. Hollow, Faora stares.

Light steps behind her signal she is not alone. She recognizes the particular gait, the measured quality, the deliberate fall of feet that says he is allowing her to hear him more than anything else, and does not turn. Her voice is rough from disuse, jaring in the empty air, "Failure has yet to sit well with me."

"You were not designed for it," Zod pauses at her side, following the line of her gaze. His lips purse and she's struck, not for the first time, at just how desperately this has aged him, "None of us were."

A hollow comfort, if it even manages that. She hums instead of properly responding, shifting in her armor. She wears it even now, a monument to a society now dead. Clinging to the past instead of moving forward. They stand in silence, watching the grays and black; the too far off pinpricks of light.

"Do you mourn, Faora?"

Her answer is immediate, "I hate." Perhaps the answer satisfies him. He smiles, an ugly expression that has never quite suited the battle worn face, too severe and edged. She falls into parade rest, watching him out of the corner of her eye. Zod stands tall, proud, a monument to Krypton and perhaps a piece of it. She tilts her head to the side, favoring him with a cursory look, "And you, General?"

He watches the stars again, takes a step forward. Still adorned in his ceremonial armor he cuts an impressive figure, more impressive against the sea of blackness. "I plan," something final, cutting, to his words. "I wait. Jor-El's son is out there and the fate of our people with him."

"Shall we find him?"

The universe is an impossible thing and they are stranded. The soldier, for all her vaunted talent, cannot say she like their odds. Her General only stands taller, all conviction, determination. And hate. Tripping from his tongue like poison, "It is my purpose," he says, tone leaving no room for argument, "And yours."

Protecting Krypton is her purpose, her life. Serving Zod.

Faora nods, clenching her jaw as her answering hate springs to life. All the things they have lost easily set at the feet of Jor-El and his brood. Krypton still sings in her blood and she longs to answer it, an odd homesickness pulling her after Zod. A world of warmth, heat and life. Hate, the more violent burn, will sustain her until then.

"At your command, my General." He says nothing, watching the stars before dismissing himself again.

With purpose, Faora falls into step behind him.


End file.
